


The Water Hat

by replicasex



Series: Hat AUs [12]
Category: Hat Films - Fandom, The Water Knife, The Yogscast
Genre: Alternate Universe - The Water Knife, Climate Change, Dark, Drought, M/M, Sadism, Torture, noncon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-06
Updated: 2019-08-06
Packaged: 2020-08-10 07:02:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20131288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/replicasex/pseuds/replicasex
Summary: He was one of Nevada’s water knives, and he bled towns dry.





	1. Chapter 1

The drought had sucked dry every spare bit of moisture the town had ever known. Everything dried up spare and tight, rigid and cracked like the broken Earth beneath them. It wasn’t the first town Ross had seen dying, but it had been the first town he’d visited that he had helped kill. He was one of Nevada’s water knives, and he bled towns dry.

He’d been sent to this dying town three days ago, to investigate a missing agent for the Southern Nevada Water Authority. Which was just about as much horseshit as anyone could stand to hear, he figured. He was one of Cathy Case’s water knives, the hard bitch who ran Las Vegas and through it all Nevada. He wasn’t high on the totem pole but he was young enough, and eager enough, not to care too much who he hurt to get Case more water, more rights, more everything. He was seeing the results, now.

This pissant little Arizona town wasn’t dying as hard as Phoenix had, it wasn’t big enough for that, but the dying wasn’t easy, either. Ross had sailed in smooth as anything in his air conditioned electric car, tinted so dark it was illegal in what was left of most states. He was surprised to see that even the Chinese had pulled out, the last refuge of any fool’s hope that something might be saved. There weren’t going to be any arcologies built here, no safe domes to recycle your own water back into you. No, this town was dead and the residents knew it.

The last message their man had left was an intended meetup between him and a journalist who might have sniffed out something to their interest. Something to do with water. The man was a glorified blogger, a former YouTube type who’d shifted into journalism when the ad money bottomed out and put a generation of kids on their asses.

This guy, Smith, was one of the lucky ones. From what Case’s people could find out, he took California’s money like any sane journo but he still made a point to ask leading questions now and then. If California was on the move, he might be willing to cough up some information. Ross had even been authorized to offer him space in one of Nevada’s growing arcologies, limited though the space was. He hoped this guy knew where their man was, or what had become of him. He didn’t want it to get bloody.

He parked the car at their only known safe house, pleased and disturbed by turns that the garage fob still worked. He had searched through the house before he brought the car in and it was as quiet as any dying place had a right to be. He wasn’t going to approach their agent’s home unless he had to. What was left of their network in Arizona depended on this guy’s contact in the Arizona Water Authority’s office. Well, what was left of it. After what had happened in Phoenix, Arizona had scarcely enough water to even merit the institution.

The dust storms never got so bad as to howl but they were bad enough here, Ross thought. He had wiped his own face down after settling himself in the safe house and the handkerchief had returned to his hand gritty with dust. The town’s ashes. He got out his tablet and went through the files again. He had memorized every detail about their agent, his name, his height, his habits and his cover story. Hell, he’d even memorized this Chris Trott’s favorite foods. Not that he thought it’d help. A man like that goes missing, he’s either rogue or dead. And if he’s rogue he’ll be dead anyway, soon enough. No, it was the journo he was interested in.

The man, Alex Smith, was a weird fit for a journalist. Never properly trained – though god knew that didn’t matter these days – and way too big a mouth to last for as long as he had. If it weren’t for the fact that he avoided bad mouthing California Ross would’ve thought he had a death wish. His own boss, Catherine Case, had come up more than few times in his blogs. And none too positively, either. Thankfully his boss was pretty sanguine about criticism, so long as she got her way where it mattered.

He thumbed through the rest of the file. Like a lot of YouTubers who’d gone broke in the Little Depression, Smith had briefly gone into other ‘net based enterprises. Like some of his prettier colleagues, Smith had tried his hand at pornography. Not much, by the looks of it, and not too popular either. It wasn’t surprising that he’d moved on to journalism afterwards. But still, Ross was surprised at what a big guy he was, at least as tall as he was if not taller. His own estimations for how soft a mark he’d be needed some recalculating.

Although the safe house was triple insulated and locked up nearly airtight Ross still felt a shiver of heat down his spine. He was lying down on the couch in the small living room, thin and wispy boxers on. He tapped play on the journo’s most popular porn vid and reached down to free himself from his underwear. The man was a ginger, with pretty blue eyes, and his big frame matched a big dick he was stroking through some tight underwear. He was obviously nervous, but just vain enough to smirk into the camera while he stroked himself.

Ross felt himself getting hard and considered, for a moment, if he shouldn’t stop watching this. There was every reason to believe he’d have to hurt this man. If he had compromised their agent, he’d have to kill him. Smith groaned on screen as he pushed a wet finger into his ass, hitching his legs up so the camera could see. Fuck it, Ross thought, and started jerking himself in earnest. He’d rather remember this than the guy’s screams anyway.

Ross bit his lips as Smith, on the video, started to cum. It really must have been years ago. No one drank enough water these days to stroke out that big a load. Ross tugged and squeezed himself harder, coming hard just as the video ended. His stomach was sticky and wet with cum and Ross knew he had better drag out some of the water he had in his car, lest he get a headache.

Before that, though, he was going to lie here, dick in his hand, thinking of the pretty ginger man he was going to have to hurt.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: torture, noncon

There weren’t many options in the safehouse for interrogation. The place, naturally, had been built to be safe, not a base of operations. Still, it had a small basement room with a few things Ross would need. He had settled on a length of electrical cord and a few other things necessary for his work. The man, Smith, was tied and shackled facing the wall. Ross had considered putting his arms above his head, to add to his discomfort, but had decided to just handcuff them behind his back instead.

He was still chuckling to himself at how easy it had been. If journalists loved anything, it was talking to other journalists. A bright tone and a gushing promise of a piece about his latest project had had him in the door before any suspicions were raised. Afterwards, a small syringe assured there would be no trouble at all. With no neighbors, Ross had simply bundled the man into his car and drove back to the safehouse.

He had taken off the man’s clothes while he dozed in a narcotic haze. He had kept Smith’s underwear on, though not for any semblance of dignity. Its removal would have more impact when he was awake. He was having to seriously restrain himself, the obvious aftereffects of the porn he’d watched. The vid may have been a few years old, but the man had kept his good looks. It had only taken a single accidental brush of the man’s nipple to send electricity down his spine. He had restrained himself from anything further save a slow, sensual suck on the nipple in question. Pure velvet.

Still, this was for work, not pleasure. And the man was waking. Ross strode over to him and offered him a sip of water through a straw. The man drank, Adam’s apple bobbing up and down as he swallowed the water.

“Do you know where you are?” Ross asked.

“N-no, what am I doing … who are you?” Smith said, hoarse and sleepy from the drugs. He’d wake up soon enough, though.

“I have some questions for you,” Ross said, pacing behind the man in chains. “I think you’ll want to answer them.”

“Who the fuck are you?!” Smith asked, waking up. Ross put his hand on Smith’s flank to steady himself.

“I’ll be the one asking questions, I think.” Ross said. And he snapped down the electrical cord like a whip. It made a beautiful noise as it hit skin and so did Smith when he screamed as the cord bit into him. It was more from surprise than pain though. Ross was going to take his time.

“What the fuck are you doing, you goddamn freak?!” Smith screamed. Ross was impressed with how loud the man could be and was grateful again for the basement room’s soundproofing. He brought down the cord again, relishing the raised welt that already striped the man’s back. The man called for help then, at the top of his very powerful lungs. Knowing he’d get nowhere until Smith had exhausted himself, he brought the cord down over and over again. Never hard enough to cut into skin but more than hard enough to raise red welts across the pale expanse of skin in front of him.

Eventually, the screams for help subsided and then so too did Ross’ ministrations.

“Got it out of your system?” Ross asked. “Good. As you can tell, no one’s going to come running to help you. This place is totally soundproofed. And no one will know you’re gone from your house for days yet.”

“What do you want?” Smith asked, sounding tired.

“Like I said, I had some questions.” Ross said.

“You couldn’t have just asked in my home?” Smith said, aiming for and missing a jolly tone.

“The questions,” Ross said. “are these: when was the last time you heard from Chris Trott, what did he want to talk to you about, and what do you know about the rumors circulating in this town about new water rights.”

“That’s a lot of questions,” Smith said, nastily. Ross brought down the cord again to shut him up. “_Jesus Christ_! Stop! Christ, please, stop.”

“I’ll stop when you answer my questions,” Ross said, rubbing the length of cord down Smith’s red back. He shivered.

“I don’t know who …” Smith started, but Ross brought the cord down hard in a vicious swipe. Smith screamed.

“I know for a fact that you do.” Ross said, pushing Smith’s head into the concrete wall and speaking softly into his ear. “Trust me when I tell you that lying isn’t an option here.”

“He was, he was just some guy I knew,” Smith said. “He was going to come over two weeks ago, said he was going to bring some water for me, I swear.”

“Just some guy you knew?” Ross asked, rubbing the cord against the red welts it had raised. “Is that really an accurate description of your relationship?” Smith's face screwed up as the cord burned against the welts.

“We fucked, ok? Is that what you want to hear, you pervert?” Smith stumbled over his words. “We weren’t dating, he was just a guy I fucked. He’d get me water if I rode his dick, is that what you wanted to hear?” It wasn’t, exactly. Chris Trott’s profile suggested he might enjoy that sort of game, but Smith was well off enough with California hush money to not need someone else to buy him water.

Ross was relieved, at least, that Smith had been able to confirm that he had gotten Trott’s email. The nonsense about water, well, it was code for information. Logically, Smith really was riding Chris’ dick, but not for water. For information. Ross frowned. He was going to have to make sure Chris hadn't revealed anything important about their organization. Otherwise he’d have to take care of the man in front of him. And he was already enjoying their time together too much for that.

“And here I thought a successful journalist had the means to get his own water,” Ross said. “No. You weren’t bending over for just water, I think. And you know what I said about lying.” Ross stepped back from Smith suddenly, and let the cord loose as hard as he dared. He could tell it had cut into him when a line of bright red seeped from the newest strike. Smith screamed and then whimpered as he felt blood soak his underwear. Three more strikes, three more lines of blood to seep down and stain his thin boxers red.

“It’s just not an option,” Ross repeated. He put the cord down and took up the water bottle, held it to Smith’s lips. He twisted away at first but eventually collapsed against the wall, wrung out. He sipped the water from Ross’ hand as meek as a baby deer. Ross remembered, suddenly, the deer he had seen as a child in his parents’ home, the little creek that had run behind their house, a real home, airy and light. The creek dried up. The home had burned.

“You’re too pretty to keep hurting like this,” Ross said. It was time for the carrot. “And too funny a blogger to die with this stupid town. Your pal Chris and I work for the same organization. We haven’t heard from him in awhile, long enough to get worried. You’re the last person he communicated with. I know it wasn’t just to get you water. Water wasn’t the fluid he was feeding you, right” Ross rubbed Smith’s flank up and down, soothing, not caring that he got blood on his hands. There was plenty of cleaning supplies in the safehouse for this, too.

“I don’t …” Smith started, but Ross hushed him.

“You know more than you think, baby.” Ross said. “If you can tell me what I need to know, we can get you out of this pissant little town. We can get you somewhere nice and safe. A real arcology, with enough water to make you sick of it.”

“Who do you work for?” Smith asked. Ross was silent for a moment.

“Does it matter?” Ross asked.

“What if you can’t make good?” Smith asked. The blood had matted the elastic waistband of his underwear. The blood would cling, then tear when he pulled down Smith’s underwear.

“Is Las Vegas dependable enough for you?” Ross said. It was a small risk to disclose who he worked for, but ultimately it didn’t matter. Either Smith would agree and be under the watchful eyes of Case’s people or he wouldn’t, and he would either live or he would die.

“You’re a water knife!” Smith said, and Ross was pleased that he had recovered enough to summon up some contempt. “You work for Catherine Case.”

“Yes.” Ross said, with a deliberate pause. “I do.”

“Chris, he …” Smith said.

“Yes.” Ross said.

“He wasn’t … we mostly just fucked, really.” Smith said. “He asked me some leading questions sometimes, I guess, enough that I knew I was getting pumped for information. But it was quid pro quo sometimes, he had a guy in Arizona Water, he told me things sometimes. For the blog.” This, at least, Ross found acceptable. Whatever he had told Smith had probably been old news, the reports in his blog coming days after intelligence had already come to Case in Las Vegas. He had to admire Trott’s initiative. Dribbling out useless information to score some hot ass, that was a man on a mission.

“Well, isn’t that nice. Pumping him for information while he was pumping you full of cum.” Ross said, just to see his reaction. Smith’s whole face reddened and he was grinding down on his own teeth. “And when he emailed you about a meet …”

“He never showed. I swear he didn’t.” Smith said, quick and desperate. “I tried his phone a couple times, then stopped. I didn’t … I didn’t want to get involved.”

“A little too late for that, huh?” Ross asked. He twisted his hands in the legs of Smith’s boxers and tugged hard. The matted blood stuck, then yanked out hairs as it was pulled away from the skin. Ross pulled the filthy things down around Smith's ankles and left them there. Smith squealed and started begging again.

“Please, please, please I told you the truth!” Smith said, trying to swivel his head around to watch Ross’ movements.

“One last question, baby, and I promise this stops if you answer truthfully.” Ross said, not resisting the urge to stroke Smith’s crisscrossed back, appreciating the heat of the welts he had made. “You had information he wanted, about water rights. That’s why he wanted a meet, to see if it was information we could use.”

“It was – it was,” Smith stuttered. “It was blow back from the Phoenix thing. You guys must know more about that than I do, right? Everyone and their dried up grandma has been going through Native American treaties and all, searching for the motherlode like you people did in Phoenix.” Ross found that he was entirely focused on Smith.

“Someone found something?” Ross asked, quiet and smooth.

“It’s going around that someone’s got something.” Smith nodded. “Normally I wouldn’t put much stock in it, but I’ve seen what’s left of this town’s criminal element in a fucking tizzy for the past few weeks. Something’s definitely happened.”

This was information he couldn’t ignore. When he came into this dying town he had hoped Chris had just gotten himself killed, or better, defected. That at least would be out of his hands and not his problem. But no, now he was going to have to spend god knows how long here, investigating this rumor into the ground. Those will be his orders when he phones this information in tonight, anyway. His mood lifted, a little. He’d need a guide to this town’s underworld and the shivering mess in front of him was the likeliest candidate. He wouldn’t mind that at all.

As if reading his mind, Smith interrupted.

“I could be useful to you, you know. If you really can get me into an arcology, I can help.” He shivered in front of Ross. “I can even help you in other ways. You said you thought I was pretty. I can tell you want me. If you can get me into one of Case’s arcologies, you can have me.”

“Shouldn’t tempt fate, baby,” Ross said, willpower already draining. He was already reaching into his pocket for the lube he had hopefully stored there. Fuck it, if a nobody like Chris Trott got a piece then he deserved some too. He unzipped and pulled himself out, rubbing crusted blood from Smith’s back on his shaft along with the lube. “You sure, baby?”

“Yeah, uh, free sample on the h-house.” Smith said. Brave and stupid, Ross thought, and pushed in slow but firm. Ross felt tightness but relief, too. This was something Smith understood and Ross had been wanting this since he had seen Smith’s video. Ross slid easily into Smith and set up a punishing rhythm, crushing Smith’s hips into the concrete wall. He wasn’t going to last long and didn’t try to. When he came, he pressed his thumb into one of Smith’s welts, making him cry out, tightening him up.

“Fuck, I needed that.” Ross said, still seated inside Smith. “I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship, isn’t it?


End file.
